


Ruling with an iron ladle

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Time enough to just live [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Ignoring Endgame end, Irondad, Morgan Stark (two lines of dialogue), Parent Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Teen Peter Parker, They live because fuck you AU, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, cooking together, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 10:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Peter tries to eat lunch while in the lab and Tony isn't happy with that.Not because of the fact of eating, but because of WHAT Peter is eating.





	Ruling with an iron ladle

**Author's Note:**

> Because I needed uncomplicated domestic IronDad fluff.

"What the hell are they teaching you at school these days?"

Peter raised his eyes from his sandwich and shrugged.

"Maths, I suppose."

His mentor, his idol and his boss, all three in one, Tony Stark, took off his safety glasses, tapped the control of the cover over the welding station to make it run the exhaust and cooler and sat back, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"And what about everyday life?"

Peter tried to make a link between the question and the conversation they had been having just minutes earlier, but there was nothing in the general concepts of Platonian philosophy that should have brought on the sudden explosion of discontent from Mr Stark. Unless Peter missed something, but the philosophy class was already a migraine-inducing point in his week and trying to work out what had annoyed the tech genius in front of him seemed like a pointless exercise.

"None, I think. At least, not that I know of. Well, sex ed. Maybe. The jury is still out on the importance of bananas."

That seemed to bring the conversation to a stop, as Mr Stark spent a few seconds rubbing his eyes, obviously lost in thought.

Before Peter managed to take another bite out of his lunch however, he found himself hauled out of his chair and dragged towards the penthouse.

"Friday, what do we have in the fridge? Give me a potential set for something high in proteins and fibre."

"There are all the ingredients for lasagne al forno, boss, and there are at least three types of lettuce Mrs Stark has ordered today in the morning. If you were willing to make some adjustments, lasagne di carnevale could also be made. Other than that, I can suggest chicken salad and minestrone, as there are several zucchinis available."

"You are using Friday as a cookbook?" Peter frowned, looking at the nearly pristine kitchen he had been dragged into.

"The boss uses my memory to store all the recipes used by his family," Friday informed Peter immediately. "I am much better at keeping track of the pantry contents than he is and I can immediately match the list of available produce to what specific recipes demand."

"W-wow," he looked down at the counter, now slowly being covered by a variety of ingredients. "But why...? I mean, I'm not really..." he grimaced. "A particular fan of lasagne."

Mr Stark twirled in place and stepped closer, holding a bag of something... green... ish.

"That is because, my boy, without being disrespectful towards the woman who had managed to bring you up and feed you all these years, your aunt May is an abysmal cook. And what you get in the school cafeteria should not even be rated as 'food', but rather as 'biological weaponry'. I should hire some of these cooks in our weapons department - if I still had it. Anyway. Put away that box, take off this shirt, wash your hands and put on the apron."

Peter looked at the growing amount of food in trepidation.

"But I thought we were going to be working in the lab today..."

"This is also a lab, kid. We're going more into the organic side of the problem today. And stop giving me these wounded doe eyes, you will get to play with the thrusters later, when this is all in the oven. Now, show me your hands. OK. Grate me some nutmeg. Two teaspoons at least."

"Ah..."

"This. Grater here, bowl here. Try to avoid grating your fingers into it, too. Bloody béchamel is no fun."

Peter sat down. Peter picked up the nutmeg. Peter grated the nutmeg.

It felt unreal. Just a little bit.

As in...

Mr Stark was cooking.

He had an apron. And a ladle. And all these other things.

And a jug of milk, too.

"Why do we need milk if you are making pasta?" he asked plaintively. "What is it for?"

"One, it's not _me_ making pasta, it's _us_ making pasta. Two, the milk is for the béchamel sauce. The nutmeg too. And the butter."

Peter opened his mouth, but really, no question that came to him sounded smart at that very moment.

"OK," he said slowly. "Béchamel sauce."

"And once you are done grating, there are carrots that need to be peeled and some celery and the parsleys. Wash, peel, set aside."

Peter sighed.

If someone asked what he was doing as part of his internship, he would simply say 'organic chemistry', because there was no way in hell anyone would believe him.

No. Way.

"Fine, now, chop the onions. Superfine."

He picked up a brown bulb and looked at it suspiciously.

"Peel it first, Peter. And wash it."

He cringed, just a bit, and started picking at the stubborn brown skin.

"Ah," he heard right at his side. "Not this way. Let me..."

A deft cut into the first layer and chopping off the roots turned out to simplify the task significantly.

"We'll have to do this slowly and I will show you."

He seemed to be failing even in the idiotically uncomplicated task of peeling the stupid onion. And now his hands were covered in onion... juice, probably, and he knew this thing would sting if he tried to touch his eyes, and obviously, tears were slowly gathering in his eyes, because it all seemed so idiotic, obviously, Peter was unable even to do such a simple everyday thing...!

"Hey, hey, hey. No crying before you cut the onions. Then you can cry. You are even supposed to, it's healthier. Washes the sulfur out of your eyes."

He took a shuddering breath.

And then there was a pat on his shoulder. A pat and a squeeze.

"Don't worry. You're doing better than I was at seventeen."

Peter blinked away the tears and looked up with surprise.

"How come?"

"I would have probably had a hissy fit if someone tried to make me prepare my own food. I only learnt recently, to be honest."

The onions were arranged in a bowl and two cutting boards were set in front of them.

"Now, a small, straight, sharp knife. Every chef and whatever will have their own suggestion how to chop onions, but this is mine. Cut off the top, cut off the bottom, and now start slicing like this, across these lines."

He picked up the small knife and tried following, but what seemed easy when done by Mr Stark was not as simple when done with his own hands.

"Don't cut yourself, if possible. OK, now, turn and keep these slices together, and now cut again. This way you are cutting with the lines, makes it a bit easier. See? Chopped onion. Very well. Now carrots. Just slice them thinly."

They worked quietly for a few minutes, Peter paying attention to the way his knife went through the carrots while Mr Stark dealt with the minced meat. Then he was given the celery root to grate, then the parsley root and, finally, several small, cucumber-y looking vegetables.

"Zucchini," Mr Stark informed him when he looked up in question. "I prefer small ones, they have less seeds."

"Oh. I though zucchini were like these huge, bulbous things. With stripes."

"That's the same thing. You can pick them when they are of any size, from six inches up. The smaller ones are not mature, so the seed part is not that well developed. The big ones are useful, too, but for different purposes. We can try this another time."

Peter turned back to his cutting board and started to mechanically slice what was in front of him, trying to reconcile the image of the technology-designing, media-baiting superhero with the man now, right behind him, melting a stick of butter in a saucepan.

"So..." he asked finally, getting to the end of the third zucchini, "what exactly is this going to be?"

"This? Meat, vegetables and passata will become a tomato ragu. Milk, butter, flour and nutmeg will be the béchamel sauce. Then I'll cheat a bit and cook the pasta sheets before we use them. Some chefs swear by doing this with dry pasta, but I think we should make our life easier here. Now, if we had time and energy, I'd make a full, long-cooked ragu, but that takes two to three hours and I'm certain you'd wilt before that was done. We'll have to eat something small to tide us over until this is all baked anyway, but... OK. Cooking the lasagna sheets. We have to make sure they don't stick to each other, so we cook them separately, just a moment for each..."

It was an experience like no other.

The kitchen was humid and redolent with spices from all corners of the globe, tomato sauce and butter, the food was starting to actually look like something one could eat, the grated cheese was waiting in the fridge and the pasta sheets were being dropped into (and quickly fished out of) water one by one and layered in a square glass dish.

All of this accompanied by a constant commentary, corrections to Peter's chopping, stirring and pouring technique (there was apparently a better and worse way of pouring the milk into the white sauce), side-stories about food from various regions and, what made his face heat up even more than the vapour from the cooking, constant praise.

Iron Man, the domestic mode.

And then there was a bowl of salad with finely shredded chicken and spinach and other things that Peter usually associated with 'to be avoided' category in the cafeteria.

"Eat," Mr Stark said, pushing a plate in his direction. "I won't have you fainting on me like a Victorian lady because of lack of nourishment, but this thing is _not_ food," he pointed to the sad, limp sandwich. "We'll have to work on your eating habits at some point, but for now, let's resolve the immediate issue. Bread, fork, salad. Eat."

Peter obediently dug in.

And it was glorious.

Somehow, the way it was made, or the chatter, or just the general thing about sitting at the kitchen table of the (most probably, according to various media) most prosperous entrepreneur of the world who murmured Italian songs as he stirred the sauce, it all acquired a certain additional layer.

Before he was done with the salad, the lasagne was in the oven, filling the whole penthouse with scents that, by Peter's definition, belonged in the higher-end pizzerias, there was a jug of lemonade on the counter between them and Mr Stark was pouring himself a glass.

Peter filled his own and they quietly clinked their glasses in a silent toast.

"How's the salad?"

He glanced into the almost empty bowl in surprise.

"Kind of... good. I mean, just good. Nice."

"Mhm. You need more protein in your diet, kid. And leafy greens. I'll make sure there is something appropriate fixed every time we are working in the lab."

"N-no worries, I can eat at school—"

"How long are you going to survive on what they serve there? This is not a problem, Peter. You are still growing, you need proper nutrients. You'd probably be better off taking protein shakes with you to school, actually, only they taste like chalk and cardboard."

"That actually sounds better than the cafeteria menu recently," he sighed. "At least cardboard doesn't smell of fried fish."

His bowl was collected before he even managed to get up and offer to wash the dishes and he was handed an apple.

"Sugars and vitamin C. Sit down and eat it, the dishwasher is fully functional."

The lift chimed faintly and they both turned to greet Mrs Stark and Morgan.

"Daddy was cooking!" declared the little one happily and nearly jumped into her father's arms. "Lasagne!"

"I see that today's lesson plan was heavily modified. Hello, Peter," Mrs Stark dropped a kiss on his cheek. "Have you been using our favourite intern as your sous-chef, Tony?"

"After you've dragged him all over the office, introducing him to all the ladies in marketing - do you know that they had requested his time for a photoshoot? - instead of giving him ins and outs of how the factories are set up, I don't think you have a leg to stand on in this..."

"I hope you both had fun," she declared loftily. "What photoshoot?"

"Yeah," Peter joined, finally catching up. "What photoshoot, sir?"

"The one for the 'Young Business' magazine. Haven't I told you? They are making a review of what internship in various companies is like and they want to include two or three faces from every major player in the market."

Peter choked on a piece of lime he had been chewing.

"Is Petey okay?"

"He will be," Mr Stark slapped him on the back. "Better now?"

Peter wheezed a bit, nodding.

"A photoshoot for 'Young Business'...?" he groaned. "These are, like... I mean, I don't have anything... unless they will go for 'lab chic' and accept my solder-splattered denims as part of the image."

"Don't worry," Mrs Stark hugged his shoulders briefly. "This is one issue that we can resolve pretty easily, we just need to take you shopping. Now, I think this is done," she nodded towards the oven that had just dinged at the half-hour mark. "Morgan, help me set the table while Daddy takes the lasagne out. Peter, hand me the cutlery, please."

The experience of eating with the Stark family was not very new, but the fact that he had participated in preparation of the dish and knew the details of how it had been cooked made it a bit more special than other cases.

"If you ladies could load the dishwasher, we'll finish the work in the lab now," Mr Stark declared after they had all eaten their fill. "There is a thruster that requires some calibration and Peter really needs to finish his philosophy assignment."

"I think this will be a fair division of labour," Mrs Stark ruffled Peter's hair as she stood up. "But I expect to see that assignment before you hand it in, Peter."

"Thank you, Mrs Stark," he murmured, slightly dazed.

"Also..." she turned to her husband, eyes narrowed. "Next time you two cook, tell Tony to use the big food processor to grate and chop things. It is why we have bought it, after all."

His mentor had the decency to blush. A little.

Or maybe it was just the heat from all that cooking.


End file.
